I remember the song in my head
When I first saw you,
The way you laughed
And how your eyes grew.

How I tried to read the tattoos
On your sandled feet,
the way I prayed for
Our eyes to meet.

The way I listened
To hear your name,
How I wished you'd look my way.

I remember wondering
How to approach you,
Perhaps by commenting on
Something you say or do.

I remember your voice,
And how it seemed to reach for me.
It sounded so simple,
Yet soft and intriguing.

With each second
My curiosity grew.
I don't know what it was,
But there was something about you.

I envy robots
Because they feel no pain.
No aching thoughts
to drive them insane.

No bad days to
Ruin their weeks,
No salty tears
To rust their cheeks.

Though we do have thing,
that I must say:
Love,
That will drive the pain away.

Everything is such fun in the beginning,
when it’s new and undiscovered.
i’ll try almost anything.

What is meant by almost?
All these stupid sick **** roles we play,
all this pretending, why?

i want to believe there’s something
behind the curtain
besides a windowless stone wall

Something inexplicable
his/her majesty of everything/
living/dead/never existed.

William Blake said, “Either be a poet or a painter.
Being both muddies audiences, and discredits one or the other.”
Actually, Blake didn’t say that. i am lost.

is it possible to love after what has happened?
the rage, hurt, disappointment of betrayal.
my ex still stalks

as recently as two mornings ago,
all her exaggerations, over-reactions, fury.
Why so desperate to return to crime scene?

An admission of her own guilt?
Excessive compulsive wound licking (psychogenic alopecia)?
Another excuse for getting drunk?

When we waited for the elevator going down
You said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
i understood completely.

i, who worships my own death.
i, who ****** on my own grave.
i, who gets bored faster than speed of light.

i, who suspects killing around every corner.
i, who sleeps restless.
i, who worries.

i, who loves women.
i, who does not understand women.
i, who is a woman.

i, who bangs the dude in L.A. to advance my career.
i, who is a nobody.
i, a man with no place to stand.

i, who belongs to a family of
blustering flirts, flatterers,
kidders, thieves.

We sit at the table,
monkey-wrenching hand over fist lives.
Forget about the eyes.

Watch the fingers.
Don’t listen to the speeches.
Words are intentional distractions.

Where’s your wallet?
Gypsies? No, we’re not gypsies,
more upper-crusty, yes, very well-connected secrets.

Do the names Dante, or Cervantes, or Nabokov mean anything to you?
No, none of them are our kin,
but we know people who know people,

infidelities in very high places.
All i’m saying is,
once you reach a certain level,

we’re all family.
i will make success happen,
with or without you.

What is a family room, anyway?
Repetition, resulting from daily life.
Tedium bringing us together
Like household traditions;

Family prayers around a broken table,
Hollow conversations buzzing like Tv static,
White noise in the background.

The family room is purgatory.

Mundane talk of petty lives
During commercial breaks.
When interaction is obligatory,
What distinguishes us from the furniture?

Gathering dust as we sit
Merely existing together,
We are the portrait on the wall;
Artificial.